Reichenbach
by WerewolfDoctor
Summary: Sherlock appears to die and breaks John's heart. Slash. Angst with fluff ending.


**Reichenbach**

_A/U – OK, so I've jumped on the bandwagon and written a Reichenbach fic. Please be kind. And writing romance isn't what I usually do, and I've never written slash before, so please be extra kind._

_And the Reichenbach episode on Sunday is going to kill me, so this has a healthy dose of fluff at the end._

_Also, I think John might be a little OOC, I'm not sure. Please comment._

When John had been a boy he had visited the Reichenbach Falls with his family. He had been overawed by the sheer majesty of them. Chuckling fondly at his son's glee his father had pulled him close to his side and said, "Remember this place son, this is a once in a lifetime experience. You won't see many places like this in your lifetime."

And so he had. He had engraved the experience onto his memory and never forgotten. His father had been slightly wrong: John had seen many places as a soldier, but as a soldier, places tended to inspire slightly less awe and slightly more fear and as he grew up the innocent wonder he felt faded, so he treasured the memory. He never expected to go back.

He never thought he'd hate a place as much as he hated Reichenbach.

As always, it was for a case. It was Mycroft who first brought it to Sherlock's attention, and of course, Sherlock resisted taking the case. Until the name 'Moriarty' was mentioned. Then there was no question about whether they were going to Reichenbach. Mrs Hudson (not their housekeeper) helped them pack, saying how nice it would be to get out and have a little holiday.

When John announced he was (to them) randomly taking an uncertain amount of leave the surgery finally got sick of John's undependable behaviour and sacked him. He didn't really mind. He'd much rather be helping Sherlock with his cases than working in a boring nine to five job. It just meant Sherlock would have to swallow his pride and accept Mycroft's help paying the way.

Or would have.

He had watched. Arrived just too late and watched them fight and tumble over the edge. Fall. John would have screamed, except he didn't have the strength. He had, as Sherlock had always chided him, not just seen but _observed_. Sherlock hadn't just fallen but sacrificed himself. He tried to convince himself that it made it better. It was better that he died achieving his aim. After all, hadn't that always been the doctrine he had lived by as a soldier? But he never could convince himself, because no sacrifice seemed to him to be worth the life of Sherlock Holmes. Wonderful, brilliant, dazzling Sherlock. It should have been him; he was the soldier after all.

It didn't surprise him when his limp came back.

It was both a torture and a comfort to continue living at 221B Baker Street. Mycroft made sure the rent got paid. He didn't have the strength to let his pride object. The memories that surrounded the flat haunted him and soothed him constantly.

His therapist encouraged him to continue writing his blog. He stopped seeing his therapist.

He got a new job and worked in a slow, thoughtless way. Everything felt mindless and slow. Sometimes thoughts of ending it all would flicker in his mind and he would finger the gun. Mycroft had a way of showing up whenever it happened and an almost supernatural way of talking him out of it.

Sometimes John hated him for that.

But most of the time he was grateful. He never really wanted to commit suicide, and he knew Sherlock wouldn't want him to. Life just sometimes felt too much to cope with all at once.

He no longer dreamed of the endless heat and gunfire, of the bombs and blood, but of the rushing water, _drowning_, a brief look of sorrow, _I'm sorry, but this has to be done_, then the drop that didn't just kill Sherlock and Moriarty, but killed him inside.

A year passed. John returned to the state he was in after he had returned from Afghanistan, only this time, there would be no Sherlock to fix him. No cabs to chase, no serial killer to shoot.

He was broken.

Mycroft watched. He did what he could, but he wasn't Sherlock, and it was Sherlock who made John feel alive. He knew it was stupid, but he wished he could tell John. Tell John Sherlock was alive.

Bring John back to life.

As unexpected as it was, Mycroft was curiously fond of the affable army doctor, and now his little brother had broken John's heart. Sherlock had better finish his job quickly, for all their sakes. Mycroft knew Sherlock was falling apart without his doctor, however much he tried to hide it.

Two years. John still wasn't sacked. He was almost surprised. Then again, he didn't have Sherlock dragging him around London constantly on some insane, dangerous new case.

_Don't. Think. About. That._

John knew Mrs Hudson missed Sherlock as much as she might miss a dead son. They never talked about it. John would be eternally grateful for her for that; he couldn't cope with people's pity.

Mrs Hudson always made two cups of tea when she made John tea, and she didn't even bother telling John she was doing it _just this once, dear._ John always left one to go cold. It was Sherlock's after all. Mrs Hudson always hid that look of pity when she took the cold cup away, and John always pretended he didn't see it. It was easier that way.

Three years. John was on the way to work when he ran into a girl getting mugged, and, of course, defended her and attacked her attacker. He got into a fight with the mugger whilst the girl ran off. And he felt more alive than he had done in a _long_ time.

Three years to be precise.

He missed work that day. He ended up in a police station covered in a few cuts and bruises, but, to his eternal pride since he was _very_ out of practice and his limp was back, the mugger was _much_ worse off.

By an amazing coincidence, John happened to run into Detective Inspector Lestrade at that police station. He had a peculiar hunch Mycroft might have arranged the 'coincidence', but he wasn't complaining. John and Greg Lestrade spent the afternoon catching up, they really hadn't met up in far too long, and discussing the 'good old days'. Then pausing, remembering and choking on their drinks.

Three years, one month. Mycroft kidnapped John. Again. Honestly, couldn't the man just call? John was taken to what he assumed was Mycroft's office, or at least, one of them, and punched Sherlock as hard as he could (yes, Sherlock was definitely real and not a figment of John's imagination, as had admittedly happened when he had been waking up from particularly vivid dreams) because Sherlock was just _standing there_. Standing there as if everything was all right, as if he hadn't been put through Hell for the past three years, one month.

Mycroft stood to one side, saying nothing, obviously feeling that this was something it was better to not get involved in.

"John …" Sherlock said thickly and John started to feel guilty, though he tried to keep himself wrapped in anger, because that was easier.

"You're not real," he said stubbornly.

"You know I am."

"Fine. Have you any idea what I've been through? Do you even care?" John felt his anger returning in waves. It felt good.

"Yes. But I had to destroy Moriarty's organisation, and so I had to fake my own death-"

"You didn't think to tell me? I could have helped, or at least I wouldn't have felt like … like …" John's voice was rising but he didn't care. Sherlock's voice rose with it.

"You think I didn't want to? It hurt for me too, but to tell you, to involve you would have endangered the whole mission, and it didn't just end with Moriarty, Moriarty's organisation had to be stopped," Sherlock gave a bitter smile. "You taught me a lot."

John gave a bitter smile back, "Well, well. Sherlock gains a heart and it breaks mine. How's that for irony?"

"I … broke your heart?" Sherlock looked lost and genuinely shocked. Perhaps, thought John, nobody had ever cared about him enough before that his rejection would break their hearts.

Mycroft tried not to feel too smug (OK, so he wasn't really trying) and turned and walked away as quietly as he could. Maybe now they would finally stop being so pigheaded and realise the truth. He would see how things had gone later. For now they deserved their privacy.

"Of course it broke my heart you stupid man," said John, frustrated. "I love you." Then he froze, "Um …"

Sherlock had no idea what to say to that, so he did the only thing he could think of and kissed John. John thought this was a perfectly reasonable response and kissed back. Once they paused for breath, which took quite a while, they both had an impressive lung capacity, John told Sherlock that he still had a _lot_ of making up to do. Sherlock told John that he was perfectly happy to oblige.

Upon reflection, Mycroft was very happy he had decided not to stay in the office.


End file.
